King & Lionheart
by 65thvictor
Summary: From Finnick Odair's point of view - Finnick, mentor in the 70th Hunger Games, meets tribute Annie Cresta.
1. 01 - reaping

From the veranda of the Justice Building, I take one last look over the heads of the crowd at my little village in District Four. It's something I do every year just after ascending the stairs to the platform - a last, fortifying ritual before we're whisked away to the Capitol for another year of horror. If I can remind myself of the relative calm of life here in the other 49 weeks of the year, it helps me get to my seat and await the reaping. Otherwise, I'm not sure I would be able to move anymore.

I sit down and look at the cuffs on my shirt, fiddling with the buttons just to give myself a distraction. I have only four outfits like this in my closet, enough to keep my reaping day wardrobe looking somewhat fresh. Certainly, as a victor, I could afford all the fine clothing I could ever want. But when I return to Four, I prefer to dress as everyone else in the District. These embroidered shirts and long pants feel more like restraints than clothing now. The buttons are solid silver on this particular piece. A waste. They could feed so many people. Four is a wealthier district, but we're not without our starving, even with the ocean from which to draw food. Most of it goes to the Capitol.

I watch the mayor help Mags up to the platform and curse myself for not being there to help her myself. Too distracted by my buttons to help my only 'family' … it's too early to get into the Capitol mindset, Odair, I tell myself. Mags takes the seat next to me and gives me a little smile. She's as close as I have to a mother any more. We're up here together, year after year. After my victory in the sixty-fifth games, Four hit something of a losing streak. This is the fifth year since I won at fourteen, the third I would be heading back to my 'admirers'. The 70th Hunger Games. And yet they continue …

The District Representative is next to ascend, heralding the beginning of the reaping. I pass over him and fix my gaze on the swaying crowd of children. Five years ago, I was there, too. Now I may as well be in a different world. I'm respected, yes. But not in the way I'd like to be.

The video plays, reminding us of our ancestors' transgressions. The opening speech is made. I could sleep through this, and indeed, I think my head bobs a bit at one point. A hard pinch on my thigh from Mags jolts me awake, and I smile apologetically as Culligan, the Capitol liaison, heads to the boys' reaping bowl. It's full, but less because of tesserae and more because of the sheer number of boys in the district. When you live in a Capitol-favoured district, you're more likely to survive. The boy is named, and just like someone else I knew, he is grinning when he is called. Merrick, his name is. He's older, probably around eighteen. I hate when they're older. It's harder to make them listen to you.

I nod and smile at him as he joins us onstage. It's perfunctory. I'm supposed to look proud.

Culligan crosses to the girls' glass bowl and pauses. I hate when the girls are reaped, and really, I have a feeling he does, too. It's harder to see a girl come up, especially those that don't volunteer. Maybe that's a little sexist of me. But it's always sadder.

The name is called - 'Anastasia Cresta' - and I am zoning out again when I see Mags stand quickly in my peripheral vision. Curiously, I look up, only to see a mass of girls crowded around … something, and Peacekeepers fighting to get through the crowd. There's momentary pandemonium before I see them hauling a young girl from the ground and shaking her lightly. The chosen girl, it seems, had fainted. Someone in the chaos throws water over her, and she seems to come to, immediately red-faced. I hang back, frowning, as she's hoisted onto the stage. Terrified and humiliated. This won't look good to the sponsors, of course... coming from a career district, she's expected to be pleased.

But the girl standing opposite Merrick is as shaky as a fish on a line. She looks so slight next to him - tall for her age, slim, with long, slightly tangled brown hair. She's wearing a linen dress with waves embroidered at the hem, so expected in District Four it's almost cliche. If it weren't for the look of absolute terror and the stray tears on her cheeks - we'll play that off as water from what was thrown on her if asked about it in any interviews, I decide - she'd be pretty in a melancholic sort of way. The mentor in me flickers to life for a moment, overtaking myself. Looks help.

Culligan hesitates as if he's waiting for someone to volunteer. She looks so pathetic, Anastasia Cresta, with her dripping hair and dress and wide sea-green eyes, that I almost expect someone to. But no one steps forward, and Culligan calls for applause for the chosen tributes. Unlike some of the other districts, here, applause comes readily. The representative takes them both by the arm and turns to lead them into the Justice Building, where they will say goodbye to their families. I stand with Mags and slide my hands into my pockets to watch, hanging back coolly as I always do. We're not supposed to interfere, after all. We are working, just as Culligan is.

For a moment, I meet eyes with the girl as she's looking around anxiously. Her hands are clenching and unclenching at her sides, and I can see her chest heaving. I want to smile and reassure her, maybe even take her aside and help her calm down, but I know as well as she does that she's going off to her death.


	2. 02 - introduction

While the tributes say goodbye, Mags and I are escorted to the train by Peacekeepers. It's like this every year - as if they think we may run away. This entourage we receive only makes it more obvious that the majority of the country, even those in the Capitol's lap, have no idea what we're put through after we become victors. Most think this is a privilege. My face darkens as soon as I step on the train, and I feel Mags' hand on my arm.

"No dejes que te afecte," she reminds me gently. She says this yearly. It never helps, but I paste on a smile regardless.

"Shall we see if they've laid out lunch, then?" I reply, as merrily as I can. From the moment I leave the reaping, I am in the hands of the Capitol. Or rather, perhaps, their hands are around my neck once more. I shift my expression, let my eyes become a bit colder, my mouth a thin smile. This is my Capitol mask. This won't show any cracks.

We're sipping a green liquid that tastes bitterly of licorice as the train begins to move. This signals to us that the tributes must be on board, and sure enough, as if on cue, they are brought into the dining car by Culligan. Merrick practically lunges forward to join Mags and I, but Anastasia is left hovering by the door, eyeing us warily. The fact that she had been sobbing isn't disguised by her tanned skin - I can still see reddish tear tracks.

My eyes are still lingering on the frightened girl by the door when a couple words out of Merrick's mouth startle me from my reverie.

"When do I start?"

I can feel my mask crumbling, and I struggle to regain myself. This happens all the time, I remind myself. They're always over-eager. But Merrick is too close to home, too much of a reflection of my younger self. I want to tell him there is no real glory, but I know the words would be lost on him, just as they were on me. I can feel Mags shoot me a concerned look, but I merely straighten myself in my chair. "Slow down," I reply coolly, "and relax for a bit. The real training can't begin until we reach the Capitol, anyhow. Besides, there's probably little I can tell you you don't already know, right?" Boys like him, they eat these words up. And he takes the bait, too, looking at me rather smugly. Fool.

Setting down my drink, I turn in my chair to face Anastasia. She's easier to focus on than rabid Merrick, even if looking at her breaks my heart. She's gazing at the pattern of tiny fish in the carpet and shivering, and I realize she is still standing in her damp dress. "Miss Cresta," I say, and she jerks her head up to look at me. The fear in her eyes makes my stomach turn. I am not the enemy, I think. But then I realize that I may as well be … "Would you like to change clothes? You look cold."

It's usually easy to charm the girls. Getting them to warm up to you is crucial, though they usually end up working more with Mags than me. But Anastasia stares dolefully at me without saying a word. Instead of waiting for an answer, I stand and cross over to her, slipping my arm around her shoulder. She immediately recoils, jerking back from me. I can't catch my expression before it becomes wounded. "Hey-" I begin, but she shoves past me out the door.

Without a glance back at Mags and Merrick, I hurried after her.

"Hey!" I repeat, reaching for her arm. My hand encircles her wrist in the corridor and I pull her to a stop. "I'm just trying to - stop struggling! - I'm just trying to help you!" I insist.

She stills, but cowers beneath me. Getting a better look, she couldn't be more than fourteen. Poor girl.

"Anastasia," I say firmly. Our eyes are locked. "Anastasia, we want to keep you alive. So in order to survive and make it to the games, let's get you in dry clothes before you die of hypothermia."

"... I suppose I should save dying for the arena?"

Her voice catches me off guard, and I tear my gaze from the rooms in the hallway - wondering which was supposed to be hers - and look down again. She is still standing in place, but her look isn't defiant. It's resigned.

She has given up before she's begun.

"... that's not what I meant," I mutter, and begin to pull her forward.

I thrust open a door marked with her surname - they work quickly - and wave her in. "Go on. I don't care if you stay here all night, just put on something dry, would you?" Releasing Anastasia from my grip, I stand back.

She takes a few steps into the room, swaying with the motion of the car, and stands staring at me. I am beginning to hate her tragic face - hate it for boring into me as it does, hate it for making me falter when I shouldn't be attached at all. I steel myself. "Change," I command, and shut the door behind me. I have a feeling she is still watching me from behind that closed door.

Mags and Merrick are talking together when I arrive back in the dining car, and their immediate silence when I step in tells me what they were speaking about.

"She's fine," I announce dismissively, and take my seat again.

Merrick makes an offhand comment, wondering if Annie was trying the same strategy that District 7's last victor, Johanna Mason, had used before, and I laugh derisively. "I wouldn't count on it," I replied, shaking my head.

"Good," Merrick says with a sigh, "she'll be easier to take out."

This comes as no surprise to me. The careers, the eager ones, they always talk like this when alone. They'll gently goad their district partner to team up with them, only to slaughter them when the first available moment arrives. I did the same thing.

So why does it bother me this year?

Perhaps it's because I can't get the image of Anastasia, ready to let herself die, out of my head.

But that will have to stop. I have one job: to train them to win. Until we reach the Capitol, when I have to once again become their darling, I will be mentor and mentor alone. But to manage that, to get Anastasia to stay alive, she will have to trust me.


	3. 03 - sleepless

I lay awake that evening.

The inability to sleep on the eve of the arrival in the Capitol is nothing new. The ride from Four is much shorter than the journey from some of the other Districts, but in order to pace everything evenly, and have the tributes arrive at proper times, we're traveling a bit slower than some of the others. Still, we only spend one overnight onboard the train. And these evenings, some of the longest in my life, are where I begin my yearly metamorphosis.

I remember hearing once that the average lifespan of a butterfly is a month, and that is what I am sometimes reminded of when I think of my Capitol life. Once a year I have to feign something showy and graceful for four weeks, and then I am mercifully allowed to die again. The minimal effort it takes me to turn in to what the Capitol expects me to be these days is frightening. Of course, it wasn't always so difficult, or as unsettling. It used to be … just me.

Shaken by the sudden memories of my younger self, I sit up. I don't expect to sleep, anyhow, so lying in bed seems foolish. I run my hands over my face and through my hair before turning the light beside my bed back on.

The further we get from Four, the more I let go of myself. My quiet life there, my small sloop and my empty house, I force all of these things from my head and instead think of what awaits me. Four weeks of the Games. Four weeks of … working with sponsors. Four weeks of being charming, charismatic, dressing up, parading, "making up for lost time." Four weeks of watching twenty-four children kill each other, hoping one of the ones assigned to my charge can live through it.

I think of my tributes.

No, I think of one of them.

Merrick is too like myself. I don't want to ruminate on him now - it's not as though he needs my help, anyhow. Like me, he would have trained for this. I don't need to ask. He has the same look and eagerness that all we Careers have. The memory of that title makes my stomach turn.

In Four - as well as in One and Two - several children are chosen at a young age for a number of factors to train as Career tributes. There is no higher honour, of course, that to be chosen. You spend the next several years, from age six until twelve, when you are eligible for the Reaping, learning how to murder. When you have six years of practicing how to kill someone, survival skills fall by the wayside, but at that point, it doesn't matter. We're better fed, stronger, faster than the children from the other districts. And that makes us far more confident. Confidence matters a lot more than you would assume when you get to the arena.

And that turns my thoughts to Anastasia Cresta.

There is no way she attended the career school, not the way she has been presenting herself. Even those who try and feign weakness in Career districts generally have a hungrier look about them. When Johanna Mason - I'm able to smile briefly, thinking of her - faked frailty, it was believable. She comes from Seven, a poor, frigid district in the north. One would have expected her to be weak. But no one expects anyone from one of the lower-numbered districts to be unable to compete.

Chances are good that this girl was simply not chosen. Perhaps she didn't attempt to get in at all, actually, but that's unlikely. Every child in Four wants to go the Career training. We're raised that way. It's supposed to be glorious. We're told from the moment we're born that's what we want to do, and there are those who trained and never got to compete in the Games that look lost even now.

Fools.

I trained. I was - am, really - rather dangerous. I won, after all. No one with a pure heart ends up winning. Even when an outer district wins, someone from ten, eleven, twelve - they win because they're ruthless. Not because of chance. If you win the Hunger Games, there is something broken about you from the beginning. I see it over and over again.

That is why I know this girl stands no chance. Her frailty seems too real. If she is pretending, she is too good at it.

I took in a deep breath and stood, reaching to the floor to pick up the clothes I discarded earlier. I pull on my pants and shirt once more, deciding to find one of the many red-clothed avox and get some tea. They humored us on the way to the Capitol - traditional foods from home were still available, but once we got to the city, we'd be subjected to their food - and a last cup of kelp tea would be nice.

I rolled back the door of my room and was unsurprised to see the lights under the door of Anastasia's room still on. Merrick, of course, would be sleeping peacefully, eagerly awaiting our arrival, dreaming of glory awaiting him.

Finding a young avox girl - too young, really - what transgression against the Capitol could she possibly have made? - I request a cup of tea, then hesitate - "two, please," I correct. I hang about in the corridor, watching the light under the girl's door while waiting.

She's back too quickly, and I'm left alone, standing holding a tray with two blue bone-china cups and a small pot of steeping seaweed. I almost want to call her back. What, exactly, was I hoping to accomplish?

I force myself to the door with the reminder that the tea would get cold if I hesitated too long, and knocked quietly. "Miss Cresta?" I call. My voice is so soft I worry she won't hear me - if I awoke Merrick, or worse, Mags, I wouldn't hear the end of it.

There's a little shadow cast underneath the door, and I hear the lock turn. The door opened a crack, and Anastasia is backlit by the lamps of her room as she peers hesitantly out at me. Her trepidation makes me smile genuinely. "... Do you want some tea?"


	4. 04 - tea

She hangs back from me as I pour the greenish liquid into cups, and it even takes her a moment to step forward to take her tea when I offer it to her. "... thank you," she murmurs, and returns to sit on the edge of her bed. She's watching me steadily. She looks even more slight in the Capitol nightgown she must have found in one of the drawers.

"What are you still doing up? It's past your bedtime," I tease gently. As if I didn't know. To my surprise, this makes the corner of her mouth twitch slightly, as though she wants to smile.

"I was just - thinking," she replied.

"Oh, are you talking to me now?" Seeing that being light with her was somewhat effective, I decided to keep it up. Besides, it kept me from ruminating on my own dark thoughts. "If you had done that earlier, maybe I wouldn't have been so cold."

"I'm surprised you're not …"

Anastasia's words jolt me back to reality: of course she's surprised I can be kind. Sometimes I forget that the side of me tributes see, that most of the world sees, does not match how I actually feel. The desire to turn my Capitol persona on is suddenly strong, a self-defense mechanism. I swallow it back.

"Hey, just because I won the Hunger Games doesn't make me a jerk," I chuckle. "I brought you tea, didn't I?"

"Yes …" she trails, and turns the cup around in her little hands.

I cross the room and sit on the floor in front of her. "So, what's keeping you up? Nightmares?" I ask gently. She gazes down at me as if she's hesitant to open up any further, and up close like this, I can tell she's been crying again. This tragic face. The face of a martyr.

She shakes her head as her eyes flood suddenly, and I quickly set down my tea. "Hey - stop -" I balk, "you don't need to cry -"

Tea is forgotten as she begins to sob, and I wonder how long she's kept this sort of crying held back. These are not the tears of someone who has been weeping all evening. These are the tears of a girl who was fighting not to cry but failing, one who finally feels she can give in. I've seen this many times before - not from tributes, but from other victors.

I sit beside her on the bed before I know what I am doing and pull her in against me. If she looked broken before, this was twenty times worse. This girl knew she stood no chance, and she was terrified, unable to cope with facing the next few days. I knew what it felt like to be changed by the Capitol, in ways you couldn't come back from, but Anastasia was facing something more permanent.

I sigh and hold her to my chest, and she offers no resistance. "Go ahead and cry," I mumble, realizing it was pointless to try and get her to stop. We both knew what was coming, and there was no sense in acting otherwise. It was best for her to get it out now, and not let the Capitol see her break. Anastasia is heaving with choking sobs, her fingers twisting in my shirt. If I weren't so heartbroken to see her like this, I would have been happy that she viewed me as someone to bring comfort, but …

Her crying slows to a small hiccup after a half hour, and she wipes her eyes with her wrist but does not move from her position against my now-damp chest.

I reach up and tuck her tangled hair back behind her ears, watching her face. "... a little better?" I ask softly. She does not move in response, or elicit a single sound. I was wrong. This girl could not be broken by the Capitol - she already had been. It was rare to see someone from a Career district like her.

"Listen to me," I say, though I fix my eyes on the teapot across the room and tighten my grip on her. "We will be in the Capitol tomorrow morning. When we're there, you can't cry like this, unless you're with me. All right? I'm only allowing you to cry with me. We're not going to let anyone think you are … incapable."

She lifts her head from my chest, and her green eyes are slightly red, still shining bright with tears. "Why...? I … I am."

"That's all right," I say, "but we're not going to let anyone else know that. Can you pretend? At least? When you're not with me? I'll come to you every night if you like. Just promise me you can keep calm in front of cameras. I can … protect you, if you can do that."

"... Why?" she asks.

"I'm your mentor," I point out, though it sounds strange somehow.

Anastasia is still for some time, and then she finally nods. "I'll do it … Finnick."

Coming from her, I think, my name almost sounds redeemed.

"Okay," I say, "now get some sleep." I stand, taking her up with me, and her arms immediately encircle my neck in surprise.

Reaching down carefully, keeping her balanced with one arm, I pull back the covers of her bed and deposit her safely between them. She's staring at me as I tuck her in. "There," I announce, "all comfortable. So, you've cried tonight. No more crying until we're together again tomorrow night. Right?"

Anastasia nods.

I almost smile, and turn off the lamp beside her bed. The deal we have struck sits oddly well with me. The thought of her crying with no one to comfort her is so unbearable somehow, yet now I will be able to be there for her. As much as I can, anyhow, before …

I gather the cups and teapot quietly, and look back at her once more, happy to see her eyes closed. I suppose it's more from being worn out than being comforted, but she will cope a lot better tomorrow being at least somewhat rested. No matter the reason.

I push open the door softly, close it just as gently behind me. I decide to take the cups back to the avox girl rather than leave them in the hall, just to stretch my legs, but turning to go I suddenly find myself face to face with Mags.


	5. 05 - arrival

I had not considered how this must look as I stood in the hallway clutching my tea tray. "... up late, aren't you, Mags?" I ask, cringing at how nervous I sound.

"Finnick..." she trails, and I can hear the accusation in her voice, looking from my face to the teapot and back. "What are you doing?"

"... she's terrified, Mags!" I hiss, and it sounds whiny, like a child to his mother, protesting. And honestly, it's not unlike that. Mags, my mentor, the closest I have to a mother anymore …

"That doesn't matter. She is a tribute."

My face blanks. "... What?" Why would she think I didn't know this already? Of course she was a tribute. And the tributes from other districts were often frightened. What was the difference here?

"Don't get closer to her, mijo," she warns, using her gentle nickname for me. "Remember who she is."

"I'm sorry, I don't understand?" I reply. I am smiling again, but out of confusion now.

Mags only sighs and rubs my arm a bit, looking as though she pities me. Which, perhaps she does, but this look is usually reserved for when I return to the District Four suite after long nights in the Capitol. So why is she giving it to me now?

"Go to sleep now," she says, "and don't think any more about Anastasia Cresta." Mags takes the tray from my hands and brushes past me, leaving me alone in the hallway.

The next morning, everyone is a bit slow arriving to breakfast. I am the first one there, and I watch the others trickle in - first Merrick, then Mags, and finally, lastly, the reason I stayed up the rest of the night. Anastasia Cresta takes the seat across from me without meeting my eyes once, and her sleepy-eyed gaze is fixed on her plate as an avox comes by to serve her.

Mags' words had stuck with me. Don't get close to her? That was foolish, I knew. But what bothered me was the warning itself, something I had never heard from her. In our five years of working together as mentors, she had never taken me aside to tell me not to befriend a tribute. Usually, it was the opposite she'd encourage. It was easier to train them when they liked you.

I spread butter on the flower-shaped bread on my plate, my brain blocking Merrick's prattling, instead focusing on the girl picking at her food. After some time I realize she is only moving it around the plate and hasn't eaten a bite. Leaning over slightly, butter knife still in hand, I smile. "You have to get it a little closer to your mouth, Miss Cresta," I tell her.

Anastasia's eyes finally flick up to mine, and I see her restrained smile again. Sitting back once more, I pick up my plate and scrape the creamed mackerel from it onto hers. "That's good. Rich, but at least it's fish," I tell her. As I set my plate down again, I see Mags and Merrick staring. I clear my throat. "You should eat so that you're strong for the arena, right? Besides, you'll be going right into the remake center, and who knows when you'll next be able to eat? You both look a bit rugged," I say lightly, and Merrick looks annoyed. Serves him right.

Mags is still frowning when she agrees that they should both eat, and goes on to explain that they will be separated from us for a few hours when we arrive, to be cleaned and polished and dressed up. The first large event, the opening ceremonies, will take place this evening. It is the first chance for the sponsors to see them, and it's important they make a good impression. At this last comment, I give Anastasia's leg a little nudge with my foot. I want her to remember our promise.

I'm pleased to see some food make it to her mouth.

It is another half hour or so before the dining compartment goes dark, signaling our entrance into the mountain tunnel leading into the Capitol. "We're here," I say aloud to no one in particular.

Ah, yes. That's right. Here it comes.

It's time to put up my shields and ready for battle - the tributes', yes, but my own as well.

"Clean yourselves up a bit, if you will. We have an image to maintain as Careers," I remind them. My voice has already steeled, and yet it sounds warmer, too. I am transitioning without even noticing it anymore. "I don't want to be embarrassed by you, and we don't want to give the other Districts any reason to think of you two as anything less than capable. Because you are, right? You're from Four." It's the same stupid pep talk I give each year. The same vapid, empty words I was given by our District Rep when I was fourteen.

I take another breath and dismiss myself to clean up as well. In my compartment I comb my tangled, wavy hair; I add fragrant oil to make it shine. Change into an off-white shirt provided by my stylist that I am not entirely unsure was made for a woman, originally. The pants I am provided have silver and gold threads woven in, surprisingly subtle, but giving the effect of fishskin. The sandals left for me are a laughable attempt at glamourizing the woven grass sandals we wear in Four - they're carved of some sort of colourful wood, lacquered to a high shine with silvery blue leather straps tooled with wave designs. Also left for me are a woven necklace interlaced with pearls, and a few loose golden bracelets. I steel myself, turn, and inspect myself in the mirror. The Capitol's golden boy looked ripe for sale.

The crowds waiting outside on Four's platform are, I know, largely here for me, and not the tributes. It isn't anything I'm proud of .. it's simply the truth. There are people - watchers, I call them - who track my every movement, outfit, expression. It's like the surveillance of the Capitol, but worse, because it feels like they are invading something much more private. Yet I'm not naive. I know I have no privacy here. From the moment of the beginning of the Reaping in Four to the time the train pulls out of the Capitol station homeward bound, I am scrutinized, observed. Abused.

I meet Mags, Anastasia, Merrick, and Culligan back by the doors. My gaze immediately flicks to Anastasia - they have left her a simple dress the colour of the sea at night. Next to me, she looks too innocent. I am the one who has been over-sexualized. With other districts, it is usually the other way around - the tributes always outshine the mentors. I am the unlucky exception.

She is fidgeting beside me, her eyes slightly wild again, as we wait for the doors to open. People are already clamoring for us, the cheering deafening, Peacekeepers fighting to hold back the crowds.

"Stay with me," I instruct her, and slide my arm around her shoulders. She's small and warm and fits nicely against me. Despite this very basic, human reassurance, I wear my same placid smile, having to focus to keep my eyes from glazing over. There's a fine line between wearing a mask and becoming the mannequin.


	6. 06 - ceremony

Mags and I had left Anastasia and Merrick in the foyer of the remake center, leaving them to be taken care of by their assigned prep teams. The panic I had seen in Anastasia's face as she was lead into the Justice Building back in District Four - that seemed years away now - returns when she is suddenly faced by the three who would ready her for her stylist. She gives me a quick look over her shoulder before she is lead away, and I am left standing with Mags. The same stylists that would dress our tributes are to meet us here, to ready us for the opening ceremonies as well. While our tributes are remade, dressed and prepared for their barbaric parade, we must do one of our own - there is a long white carpet stretched down the avenue of the tributes each year, where mentors and district reps do their own sort of show: we are photographed for magazines, filmed and put on big screens, and, most importantly, interviewed again and again about our tributes this year - did we think they would win?

It has been made clear to me again and again that it means something quite different for me, though. This is the first glimpse of me potential customers get in the flesh, rather than simply on television. They will be checking my physique, my clothing, my hair. Determine how much they're willing to bid. As if I'm the biggest catch of the day, auctioned off. That's not unlike what it is, really.

Talking with Aurelia is almost pleasant after five years of being dressed by her. She is one of the few in the Capitol who doesn't look at me hungrily, despite possibly being the one who sees me naked most often. She tells me she has the female tribute this year as she is readying my clothes, and that makes my stomach turn. At least she would be in kind hands with her stylist.

I am bathed, the curls in my hair defined a bit more, and light makeup applied - just enough gold shimmer to accent my features. I try to keep from rolling my eyes, which takes more effort than usual, and instead smile and thank Aurelia. Part of my act is pretending to enjoy all of this.

I'm dressed in a second ridiculous costume. This time, it's a set of linen pants, more shimmery wooden sandals, and a shirt - sea green to match my eyes, decorated with seed pearls, the gold leaf sewn on to resemble scales. It's gaudy, showy. They know eyes will be on me.

I leave the room when I am dressed and request a drink, something carbonated to settle my writhing stomach, which feels full of live eels. The Avox, I can tell, attributes it to first-night jitters. Fine. Let him think that. I stand taking deep sips while waiting for Mags, who needs a little more time and attention than I do. I'm impatient. I feel horrible about it - it's nothing she can help. But the longer I'm alone, the more I ruminate and fret. Where is Anastasia? How long until I am pulled away to be given to a stranger? How many will I have to meet tonight? Is Anastasia keeping our promise?

I desperately want to see someone who can calm me down. The closest thing I have to a friend. When old Mags appears, I take her arm and practically pull her to the elevator. Culligan is waiting for us in the lobby, and the three of us are escorted to the city center. There was an hour and a half left until the tribute parade, and we were now expected to arrive.

I put on my best smile as I exit the car, keeping my arm linked with Mags'. They love this, they always have. The flashbulbs go off immediately in our faces, and I have learned not to blink, even if it makes my eyes water a bit. It makes for better photos.

My first year as a mentor, the pandemonium was astounding. I was fifteen, and everyone was so excited to see me back. It was wonderful, I thought. I loved the attention, soaked it up. The next year … things changed. And they get worse, year after year. It's my price for staying alive.

I am going through my fifth interview about my tributes - they looked healthy, capable, they were Careers, of course, they were both ready to go - lie after lie after lie - when I feel a bony pinch and a reporter laughs. I turned immediately. "Johanna!"

Standing slightly shorter than me and scowling was Johanna Mason, the only person I truly trust. She had cut off all her hair this year - it had gotten gradually shorter and shorter each year I had known her, and now it was cropped rather close, but flattered her thin face. They had dressed her in a dress far too feminine. Clearly, her stylist didn't know her well.

"You look awful," she said immediately.

"You're too kind. Give me a kiss," I demand, leaning down. She shoves me backwards with surprising force, but I can tell she's holding back a laugh.

I eventually give up on trying to kiss Johanna for the reporters - after all, it's nothing I actually wanted to do, anyhow. She'd murder me, I'm sure of it. Skin me with an axe. But Johanna makes me laugh, and it's so easy to get her stirred up. Victors will take amusement wherever they can find it.

I link my arm with hers and only get a scowl in return. No real protest. We begin to walk together down the carpeted runway. Our friendship is the subject of many gossip magazines, and we never confirm or deny anything - though there's nothing between us. Neither one of us has any interest in love, much less with each other - Johanna, after all, would prefer a woman.

"Well?" she asks. It's a loaded question between us.

"No," I reply immediately. "The boy is too headstrong. The girl …"

Johanna raises her brows. "I saw the reaping..." she begins leadingly.

I turn to pose for a picture with Johanna, ignoring her statement. I don't want to talk about Anastasia right now. I don't want to talk about Anastasia right now, I don't-

"What about you?" I insist. "Any chance of getting out?"

Johanna rolls her eyes, giving my arm another hard pinch to show her displeasure at my ignoring her. "No," she replies, "the girl weighs like fifty pounds, she's goin' down quick."

This sort of thing is not uncommon from the outer districts, where there is a larger food problem. Johanna's district, I've heard, is buried in snow much of the year, and they have a lot of deaths from exposure. Most of the tributes from Seven look sickly.

We break up, reconvene, break up again. Johanna knows my attentions must be varied. I greet everyone that calls to me, smile, walk as slowly as I can make myself. Now and then I feel myself start to fade out, but it's times like that that Johanna will come by and step on my foot or nudge me, bring me back to reality - or as real as I can manage to feel, here.

After what seems like an eternity, we are allowed to sit - the victors have two rows of twelve seats, where we can mingle with one another, look like we're enjoying the evening. I wedge myself between Johanna and Seeder, the lovely woman from Eleven who mothers all of us, even Mags, and laugh slightly when Johanna kicks off the heels they had put her in.

"I'm takin' bets now - they'll be trees," Johanna announces to the other victors, prompting more laughter. The banter among us is not entirely fake. These people are my friends, now. But the only one that knows all of my secrets is Johanna Mason. I could not even tell Mags about where they take me …

The anthem begins, and I keep my gaze away from the platform where the president is standing. All forty-eight victor eyes turn towards the avenue, and the first chariot rolls in. As usual, the tributes from One are stunning - glowing with health, with beautiful costumes. They are usually favourites among the sponsors. I could care less this year, however. I am anxious to see the chariot from District Four.

The wait is not long - around a corner comes our District's white chariot, pulled by two Palomino horses, carrying along this year's tributes. But I do not even see Merrick.

Anastasia stands straight, her face lovely but blank. She looks like a little porcelain doll, ready to break at any moment, though Aurelia has made her positively stunning: she is wearing a dress that falls far past her feet, fluttering out behind her, of a beautiful ombre-dyed silk. Ropes of pearls adorn her neck and hair, and every inch of her skin is covered in the same gold powder they put on me. She has been dressed as a mermaid, I realize, and I seem to lose my ability to breathe when she and Merrick are given their time on the screen.

Only when the chariot comes to a halt do I finally gasp, and notice Johanna watching me curiously.


	7. 07 - afterword

Johanna's eyes are burning holes into me as the victors make their way back down to the stables to meet with their tributes. This time, out of the sight of the adoring public, we're escorted by Peacekeepers flanking us on either side. As if we'd be able to make a break for it.

To my surprise, she does not say a word about whatever is causing her to stare me down - though perhaps the additions to our company have made her a little less likely to speak up. The stylists are already awaiting us, helping the tributes down from the chariots - some outfits require a little more dexterity than others. I spot Anastasia immediately, gathering the long folds of the train of her dress up in her arms.

"You look lovely," I announce as I approach, Mags - and Johanna - on my heels. I offer my hand to help Anastasia down, and she takes it, descending with a little hop that makes me smile. "You were excellent. You both were. Stole my breath away."

"Thank you …" Anastasia trails. Standing next to the chariot, she looks small and weighted down by her costume. I'm silently glad she was able to carry herself so well during the parade. Or is it simply the context, now, that makes her look so demure?

"He's not kidding," Johanna replies from behind me, and I have the sudden, overwhelming urge to lean back onto her foot.

"Ah - this is Johanna Mason. Remember her? She won the year after I did." The look on Anastasia's face says she remembers Johanna's games quite well, and I'm immediately sorry I introduced them. "Her bark is worse than her bite, I promise."

"Was that a halfhearted attempt at a tree joke, Odair?" Johanna scoffs, though her eyes are still on my female tribute. She's scrutinizing her - but for what? Johanna wasn't the type to size up tributes pitted against her own - some districts, particularly One and Two - were known to do that, but not Jo. "Anyhow," she adds dismissively, "I gotta go get my … birch and fir, or whatever they were supposed to be this year. My stylist's idea of variation."

Without much more of a goodbye, she slinks away. I immediately turn my attention back to Anastasia, who has been joined by Merrick. "Well, one of the hard parts is done," I announce. "Now you can clean up and have dinner. We're going to start training in the morning, so it's probably best you get an early night."

I take them in. Merrick, making leering eyes at the tributes from One, already threatening them, though he will probably request an alliance. Anastasia, still holding the fabric of her dress in her arms, looking anywhere but at the other tributes. They could not be more opposite. Mags and I have our work cut out for us this year.

"Let's go," I urge gently, and take both their arms, steering them towards the exit. "No need to antagonize the others before we even get you in a position to fight, Merrick."

Glancing back over my shoulder to make sure Mags is following along, we pass by Johanna Mason, Seeder and Chaff, and Haymitch Abernathy, alone, with their respective tributes. I smile politely, but now is not the time to talk. I feel like Anastasia's facade could shatter at any point, and the last place I would want her to look weak is in a room full of hungry rivals.

We arrive at the tribute building, where our wisp-thin District Representative, Culligan, is waiting to escort us to our suite. He is wearing blue to match his hair and eyes, and, presumably, for District Four. It's thoughtful, if not a little misguided. I am ready to go upstairs, to shower, undress, and hopefully sleep. But as I step out of the car, Culligan places a hand on my arm.

"Mr. Odair," he says anxiously, and nods aside. Two Capitolites - a man and a woman - stand a short distance behind him.

I was hoping to make it through the evening unscathed.

I should have known.

"Mags, go ahead and take them without me," I say gently. "I have something to do."

"Yeah, you do, we're supposed to get started training," Merrick says harshly. The withering glance he gives Mags, saying he isn't sure she's capable, makes me want to lash out. He's trying. The older ones always are. Instead, I take a deep breath.

"I'm sorry, I have something to do," I repeat firmly. "Mags will be happy to start answering your questions. Culligan knows a lot about how to charm people and win their favour. You have two excellent teachers at your disposal this evening, so use them."

I refuse to look at Anastasia. I am afraid she thinks I am backing out on our promise.

"Besides," I add quickly, "I'll be back late. If you're still up and really need something from me, I'll be there." I glance at the girl, hoping she can read between the lines. But she's only hanging back dolefully beside Mags. I sigh. "Good night then!"

Culligan gives me a sad sort of smile - sometimes I wonder what he knows - as he begins to lead our little school away. I am left standing with the two he nodded to, one a tall Capitol woman who has long served as my booker, if you will. "Good evening Lucilla," I greet. My smile already feels worn thin, and I quickly ramp myself back up. I was up for a long night, after all. There was no way this would be the last.

"Hello Finnick," she says brusquely. "This is Ovid. You're to go with him for four hours."

He is younger than most, slimmer. He must be newly wealthy. Most of my patrons are much older, more willing to pay out large sums of cash to be with me. But someone like this is more unusual, obviously wanting to make a scene and gain attention in the elite circles by hiring me. I smile and slip my arm through his, ignoring the churning heat in my head, the mournful sea-green eyes of Anastasia Cresta, my broken promise to meet with her to make her feel safe. "Lucky me," I reply, and this makes him smile.


	8. 08 - enterprising

Ovid is not my only customer this evening. Only the first. I am moved from party to bedroom and back again three times, exchanged when the allotted time is up, thrust a handful of money and sent away after they've glutted themselves on me. People are happy to see me back in the Capitol, envious of Ovid, Domitia and Angelique for getting first dibs after my long absence. I watch as each patron's expression transitions throughout the evening from pride at having me by their side to the inevitable lust as they realize their time is running out. It's then they'll excuse us from whatever event we're attending, pull me away upstairs and into some anonymous room.

In between, others approach me to plan for another night. Men, women, socialites, Capitol elites, politicians. There are many repeat customers, and I must be especially kind to them. It isn't really me, though each year I am threatened more and more by this false persona. I flirt. I sneak touches, nibble ears, whisper when others are looking just to create a spectacle. It makes my patrons feel important, lets them think that I am only theirs, even though they know better. And this, in turn, keeps me, and what few loved ones I have left, alive.

I am left alone in the room by my last customer of the evening, Angelique, who must get back to her husband. The first evening back in the Capitol, while not my busiest, is always the most difficult. I am trying not to vomit as I lay sprawled on the sheets, just as I was after she crawled off me to pull on her dress. As ill, as disgusting as I feel, I am grateful for the brief time alone - something rare in the Capitol.

I drag myself up after a moment or two, and have to brace myself against the headboard to stand, reeling, suddenly reminded of how much alcohol I had ingested this evening. I do not see how victors like Haymitch can live in this state all the time - though it does make enduring these nights temporarily easier. There's a sharp knock on the door, one I know well by now.

"Not ready, Lucilla," I call, leaning down to pull on my shorts, then pants. I put on my shirt but leave it open, leave the jewelry I had been put in hours and hours ago on the floor. Taking a few unsteady steps, I end up groping my way along the wall to the door.

Lucilla, and her accompanying Peacekeepers, half-lead, half-drag me down to the waiting car. I am not sure what part of the Capitol I ended up in, but it takes half an hour to return to the tribute building, during which I fight not to get ill. I account it to the stress of the day, yet swear to myself I will never drink like that again.

A third Peacekeeper escorts me up to the fourth floor, which, at this time of night, is silent and still. I'm grateful. If I had to see Merrick, or even Mags, right now, I could easily lose it. I discard my shoes by the door and stand swaying for a moment or two, pushing my damp hair back away from my face. I am desperate for a shower and sleep, despite not being tired: the longer I stand here awake, away from the adoring crowds, the more I become aware of what just happened to me. Sometimes, in the middle of it all, I can simply switch off my mind. I become an automaton, going through the motions with a false but brilliant smile. But here, standing in the dark and quiet, alone, reality sinks in quickly. All the memories become clear and sharp-edged. The words I said, the things I did and those done to me, they're all very acute.

I take a deep breath and force my mind from that evening. In a few hours, I would have to be mentor again, and I would need to recollect myself, put myself back together.

I stumble through the dark apartment towards the hallway where the lavish bedrooms branch off. The stillness is heavy, and I almost overlook the light underneath the second door. I do not need to knock to guess who occupies that room. Had she been waiting for me all this time? The thought keeps me in place where I stand. I know being angry with myself for being gone is no use - there is nothing I can do about that. But how would I explain that to Anastasia Cresta? Telling her where I was, honestly, would put us both in danger. And yet the guilt weighing on me suddenly makes me want to rush in, apologize. Beg her to forgive me and promise I'll keep her alive.

Instead, I push open the door to the room I occupy every year and leave the light in the hallway. I could tell her, yes. But there was no sense in putting her life on the line a second time. She had enough terror awaiting her, and I was beginning to doubt my ability to keep it at bay. The Capitol had a way of making me feel just as helpless as she did.


	9. 09 - five-thirty

The next morning I am awoken by the sounds of movement outside my room. Mags, Culligan - possibly even the tributes - they have beaten me in awaking. This is not a surprise, though, given the ache that rushes through my head as soon as I open my eyes. I regret no longer being asleep immediately. Pushing the heels of my hands against my eyes, I haul myself up to a sitting position and give pause: I do not remember covering myself with a blanket the night before. I begin to recount: I left the entryway. I saw Anastasia's light on, but came into my room regardless. I showered. And then I collapsed on top of the covers and went straight to sleep. Didn't I? Perhaps I awoke in the middle of sleep and did not realize.

I give my eyes a final rub before standing, cross to the wardrobe to see what the Capitol has picked out for me today. Having the 'honour' of being one of the more treasured victors, clothes are sent for me daily, hand-picked by Aurelia, who probably has no idea what she's dressing me up for. I blearily dress myself and rake my hands through my hair, deciding that's as good as it's going to get - some citizens like the disheveled look on me, after all - and head for the dining room.

Or at least, I start to. It's as if she was waiting for me - as soon as my door closes, Mags rounds the corner from the living area into the hallway. She is scowling.

"I said I'd be back late!" I say, immediately defensive. She should know this by now, it happens every year. She never questions it, but I'm sure she knows something is up regardless … but her frown doesn't abate.

"¿Qué estabas haciendo?" she hisses.

"What?" I am faltering.

"That girl left your room at five-thirty in the morning!"

"What...? What girl?" I ask dumbly. I was back here, wasn't I? Alone? Asleep?... I had never had a customer in the tribute building. That would be a stupid risk, both on my part and that of whoever I was with. It would never be allowed.

"Finnick, I told you. Don't get close to that girl," Mags replies. Her tone is a warning, again …

"What- Anastasia? I didn't even talk to her last night …" But this does not convince Mags. She turns her back to me and heads back to the table, and I shuffle dolefully after, like a scolded child. But why is it I feel guilty? I didn't actually do anything. I sit across from Anastasia once more, meeting her eyes. She looks more anxious than usual.

"First day of training," Merrick announces as I sit, as if I may somehow be unaware of this fact.

"No kidding?" I reply without looking at him, reaching for the little bowl of sugar cubes. I can feel his expression sour.

"What should we be focusing on?"

"Well, you're an experienced killer, right?" I can't keep the sarcasm from my voice. Maybe it's the lack of sleep - but that's an excuse. He is like speaking to a fourteen year old me, and it only twists the proverbial knife deeper each time I hear him speak. "So you should maybe focus on survival skills instead of weapons." I nudge Anastasia's foot with mine. "You, too. So eat a lot. The training center lunches are late in the day. You'll have a busy morning."

I've stopped looking at anything but the table as I talk, and I can tell by the silence that follows my words that I have probably been stirring sugar into my coffee a bit longer than I should have. Between Mags' obvious anger, Merrick's arrogance and Anastasia's heavy, sad silence, there isn't much life left in me this morning.

I leave the goading of the tributes to eat to Mags as I force my own breakfast down. Nothing has much taste on top of my lack of sleep and mild hangover, and so I am only eating to keep myself going. While the tributes train, I will be thrust into a room with the rest of the victors and a multitude of Capitol elites … those who will become potential sponsors when the Games air. We have to begin talking up our tributes early, convincing them their bets are sure, and lining up deals if we can. I am especially good at this, but not by virtue of ability. It's simply because I'm the most attractive out of the twenty-four of us. My looks are something I sometimes wish I didn't possess. It would have saved me a lot of pain if I hadn't been pretty - at least then I would have died in the arena.

Slowly, the table empties of its occupants - Culligan first, as he is on a tight schedule, then Mags. Merrick announces with grandeur that he is going to change into his training clothes, and I am left with equally silent company: the avox, and Anastasia Cresta.

"... Did I get you in trouble?"

Her voice is so startling in the quiet room that I almost gasp. I look up from my half-empty plate and swallow the mouthful of egg I had. "... Pardon?" I ask dumbly.

"I … thought I could go talk to you last night." She's staring at me across the table, her hands gripping the edge. "You said …"

"I know," I interrupt. "I'm sorry. I did say that." The words tumble out of my mouth anxiously, I'm so worried about reassuring her.

"It's okay … I thought maybe you had forgotten, so I went in to your room, but you were asleep. And when I left, Mags saw me …" Something about the way she trailed off there was leading, as if she wanted to say more, but she fell silent again.

"Mags...?" I ask. And all at once, it dawns on me, what Mags must think is going on. I lower my fork to my plate slowly, finding it hard to focus my gaze on Anastasia again. "Oh. Well … I'll talk to her, okay? It's not a big deal. She was probably just concerned that you weren't getting enough sleep." It's a lie, a thin one. But I hope she'll bite.

"Okay," she agrees softly, somewhat sheepishly.

"We'll meet tonight, all right? But it's best if we don't tell anybody, okay? This is kind of … above and beyond my job as your mentor."

Anastasia nods. "I know," she mumbles, and she looks so demure I blush.

"Well." I take my napkin from my lap and leave it on the table. "You'd better go change, huh? Culligan will be back to take you two down there soon. Remember what I said - it really is best to focus on survival skills. It's only the first day, so don't let them spook you yet."

I stand and push in my chair, turn to leave, but … "Anastasia?"

She lifts her gaze to me again.

"The bedrooms are cold, aren't they? Thank you for covering me."

This finally elicits a smile from her.


	10. 10 - friends

The only thing I enjoy about the training days of the tributes is the time I get to spend with the other victors. It is difficult, because we're often pulled in other directions by potential sponsors or other officials - myself especially - but it's something like being with friends, so long as we can ignore the barbaric reason we're together.

Today, I am excited to see Johanna. Living in separate districts, our friendship is reserved for the Capitol, but we make up for lost time easily. Most find us unlikely companions: Johanna is more than a bit abrasive, whereas I am seen as a sort of happy-go-lucky playboy. It is because Johanna and I each know the other's true personality that we are as good of friends as we are. Though I admit Johanna's is not far from how she presents herself, regardless …

The room we meet in, a large atrium, also serves as a sort of control room for us victors once the Games begin. Here we mingle, but also monitor the movements and well-being of our tributes in real time, so that we are able to get medicine or weapons to them as needed. Once the Games start, there will be no chance to chat quietly with Johanna or Seeder. The lull before anything that requires our serious attention is our chance to commiserate.

This morning, the room is already full when I enter, though it does not mean I slip in unnoticed. Quite the opposite, really. When one pair of eyes fall on me, several more soon follow. I smile, forced to acknowledge each that acknowledges me, trying to act like I am not desperately searching out a friendly face.

"Odair."

She comes up behind me and pinches me, our customary greeting. "Johanna!" I greet warmly, doing my best to express my gratitude at her finding me before a hungry-eyed Capitolite does.

"Come get some of the cinnamon tea," she says, a little too loudly, a little too conspicuous. But this is just Johanna. Long ago I gave up on trying to coach her in the art of subtlety. "It's from Seven, probably the only chance you'll get to try it."

"Sounds delightful," I agree, smiling serenely. I follow her to the obscenely lavish banquet lay out for all of us, wait as the avox behind the beverages table doles out two cups of the hot reddish tea. Here, we're away from listening ears. _Those that could relay our gossip, anyhow,_ I think, glancing at the mutilated woman handing us our cups.

"How's the girl?" Johanna's question jars me from my thoughts.

"The girl?" I reply, perhaps a bit too innocently.

"Finnick, what exactly are you doing?" she hisses, her bony hands wrapped around her cup.

"I don't follow."

"She's just going to be brutally murdered out there. Do you really wanna get close to her and then watch that? C'mon."

"Johanna!" I scold, frowning. "Don't talk like that. She could win," I insist, though there is not much conviction behind it.

"_Please_," Johanna groans, rolling her eyes. "She's not going to win. Not unless the whole thing was rigged."

I don't answer, only drop my gaze to my tea. She's right, of course. Nothing short of the Gamemakers cheating could keep Anastasia Cresta alive. And even then, what was I so concerned about it for? It wasn't as though Anastasia was particularly different from any other tribute I had had pass through... and yet...

"Finnick," Johanna begins again, and this time, her tone is softer, "just look out, okay? You know they're watching _you_ more than anyone. If they catch on that you have a thing for this gi-"

"I don't have a thing!" I say, looking up sharply from my cup. "Johanna, she's a tribute!"

"Right. A cute, innocent, doe-eyed tribute."

"'Doe'-eyed?"

"Don't worry about it. Look, she's pretty and tragic and you're too nice not to fall for that sort of thing." She heaves a sigh and takes a sip of her tea. "Eh, maybe it's good for ya. You could use some sorta happiness, if relationships are your thing …"

"That's ridiculous. Like I'm free to do something like that …"

"I'm not saying you are, but … just be careful, whatever you do. Right?" Johanna finishes, clapping me on the arm, harder than any man. I sigh, and nod, giving her the answer she wants. There is no sense in arguing with Johanna.


	11. 11 - i can tie knots

Most of the time, I am left to my work in the atrium. I am allowed to try and gain sponsors, to talk up my tributes and convince those in power that they stand a good chance. Now and then I am drawn away, particularly if the customer is of a high rank or has paid out a very large sum of money to have me in the middle of the day, but for the most part, the three days leading up to the Games are not as crushing. The evenings, of course, are still filled with pre-Game parties and celebrations. More often than not, though, I am brought to a more private event.

Though Johanna is the only fellow victor that officially knows what is happening each time I am lead from the room, I am sure the others have some idea. We all have our hardships to bear, but I sometimes think they are looking at me with more pity than the others. I always smile in return. There are places I cannot drop my gold mask, even among friends.

Today I am especially flirtatious with the sponsors. My intuition tells me that Anastasia's training score will not be all that high, and so I am trying to secure funding for her early on. I once received the most expensive sponsor gift ever seen in the history of the Hunger Games, but this does not mean that they are willing to do the same for the children I now mentor. Now and then I get to steal a moment with a friend, by the food or a window, and we talk in low voices.

By the time I return to the tribute building for dinner, I am worn down. I wonder, as I throw myself down onto one of the green couches, how much longer I can do this. In the late evenings, when I come home from being passed around, it sometimes feels like too much to handle. Why am I continuing to do this? Am I existing solely for the benefit of the Capitol?

I hear the door open and shut once more, and the excited voice of Culligan babbling inanely about Merrick's performance. Of course he'd bolster his ego … Lifting my face from the cushions, I look up to see the three of them staring at me. I probably don't look as put-together as usual. I sit up quickly and clear my throat. "Well. How did it go?" I ask.

I can see Anastasia start to tremble from five feet away.

I am on my feet immediately. "On second thought, why don't we discuss training individually? Merrick, you go find Mags." I am sure he won't object to this, as he doesn't seem to trust me. Fine. "Come on, Miss Cresta," I add, my tone far less brusque. I put my arm around her shoulders and draw her away from Culligan and Merrick, practically marching her to her room. Merrick would flay her alive if he saw her cry. I have no doubt.

Only when the door is shut behind us do I exhale and release her shoulders. "Sorry, that was abrupt, wasn't it?" I ask lightly. I take her gently by the arms and turn her to face me, studying her. She's … fraying. I know that look well. I often see it on my own face in the mirror.

"Hey …" I begin, then falter.

What made me think I was the right person to reassure her? How could I, of all people, tell her that living was worth it, when I doubted it myself?

She is watching me, waiting for me to say something, her arms still shivering under my grip. And so I pull her up against me and bury a hand in her hair, the other on her back. She is surprised only a moment - she tenses in my arms - but then she lets her weight rest against me, and exhales a little unevenly. I feel a momentary panic rise, wondering if this was truly okay, but feeling the tension released from my mind makes me disregard my doubt.

And I say the only thing that comes to my mind: "I'm so sorry."

"I can't face them..!" Anastasia's voice is muffled by my shirt, but I only tighten my grip and press her in closer.

"Stop. You can. You absolutely can. Come here," I insist. I stumble along with her to the bed and sit her down on the edge without ever releasing her. "Don't panic. Tell me what you can do, not what you can't. Okay?"

She lifts her face from my chest and seems to be processing this idea. "I can … swim," she says after some time. "My mother w-is a diver in Four … she takes me with her, I can … I can hold my breath a long time, and I'm a strong swimmer."

"See?" I say immediately, sliding my hand from her hair to her cheek. I am no longer thinking about perception. I only want to keep her from crying. "That's great. That's an advantage I can guarantee you'll have over the others."

"... Even Merrick?" she asks doubtfully.

"His parents worked in a cannery," I reply. Honestly, I have no idea what Merrick's background is like. I have no doubt he can swim - it's almost a requirement to live in the coastal district - but a small lie wouldn't hurt her right now. Besides, it's not as though I haven't told lie after lie to her already … you'll be fine, you can win. "What else?"

Anastasia shrugs, leaning in to my hand. "I can tie knots …"

"Yeah?" I ask. "Want to show me? It can't hurt to practice some more …"

Anastasia looks as though she isn't sure why tying knots would be useful in the arena, but I have seen an opportunity to calm her mind. I release her to lean down and pull the lace from one of my boots, presenting her with it with a smile that is almost genuine. This takes even me by surprise, as we are far from District Four's shores - the only place where I am able to smile easily, truly.

She hesitates, but pulls the lace from between my fingers. Resting her head on my shoulder, she murmurs, "this is an anchor hitch," and begins to twist the string.


	12. 12 - boys

It's dinner time. I can hear the avoxes outside Anastasia's room, bustling about, setting the table. Going back and forth to the kitchen. Anastasia fell asleep long ago on my shoulder, the rope still twisted around her thin fingers, and I haven't had the heart to move yet. Or, it seems, the willpower. We had gone through several knots together, until I watched the terror abate from her eyes, and then I told her all about the sloop I keep at home as her little hands continued to make knot after knot. Having such a normal conversation, in an intimate setting - without fifty pairs of Capitol eyes on us - seemed to soothe not only her, but myself, as well. She had eventually drifted off, no doubt worn out by the day, but now, surely, I would have to rouse her.

And yet … I am still sitting here. I can feel her chest rise and fall deeply against my arm and her breath is warm on my neck. I can't bring myself to move her, not when this is probably the most sound sleep she has gotten since we left District Four. But if I don't exit her room, there will be more talk. It would be best if I could bring something back for her, make some excuse to come back and eat here, in the privacy of her room. The stillness I found in the past few hours isn't something I'm ready to give up just yet, not when I'll inevitably be lead out to another round of anonymous beds in a matter of time.

Slowly, I begin to inch myself away, catching her shoulders with my hands. I am pleased to see her stir but not awaken as I lay her down carefully on top of the duvet, tucking a pillow underneath her head. I back up from the bed slowly and wait, still, to see if she awakens, but she only shifts slightly on her side and sighs in her sleep. The poor thing.

The comfort of being next to her came as a surprise. I am averse to being touched when I can help it, when it is in my power - it's as though my customers make me feel so powerless that I seize the opportunity to be in control when I can be. And yet Anastasia against my side was welcome. Maybe her feeling safe reflected upon me.

I leave the room as quietly as I can, tiptoeing from the door until I decide I am a sufficient distance away to walk normally. I feel that if Anastasia were to wake and find me gone, there would be more panic to quell, and I don't think I could manage before I had to leave her again.

The dining room is mercifully empty save for Culligan, who is looking through papers and drinking tea. "Good evening," I greet. Not good. This will already look suspicious, as I rarely talk to Culligan - but he is cheerful, and perhaps stupid enough, to not recognize it.

"Good evening Mr. Odair," he says brightly, setting down his notes. "I heard that training went well this afternoon."

"Sure," I reply uneasily. He is wearing a bright orange suit. If I didn't loathe the oversaturation of the Capitol, I would compliment him on the flattering contrast with his blue hair. "They're promising."

"Well, tributes from Four always are," Culligan agrees, beaming. His smile is irritatingly bright.

"Of course," I agree, though I sound uncertain, "careers." I pick up a plate and begin to fill it myself, quickly. I do not want to get looped into a conversation with Culligan and potentially run into Merrick or Mags. I can only think of getting back to Anastasia. Strawberries, bouillabaisse, fluffy white bread studded with cherries, spinach with cream sauce, everything I can fit goes on to the plate.

"I'll be dining with Miss Cresta in her room tonight," I tell Culligan stiffly, and he merely smiles serenely. He is either simple, or very kind. Knowing the Capitol, it may be the former. I find kindness is a rarity here. Even so, I couldn't bring myself to lie to him. Not now, when I am very much my real self, for the very first time in the Capitol city. Culligan is a safe person with which to test the waters.

"Very well," he agrees. "Would you like me to send in some tea?"

I hesitate. "... yes, that'd be nice. And … Culligan? Could you just … keep this under wraps?"

Is it just me, or has his smile changed to one of amusement? "Of course, Mr. Odair." He picks up his papers once more and turns his attention from me. Good.

I am creeping back to Anastasia's room, trying desperately not to tip the food onto the floor, when a second door in the hallway opens, and Merrick exits his room. We meet eyes but say nothing, and I quickly turn from him to duck inside Anastasia's room.


	13. 13 - private dining

Immediately, my head is buzzing. Surely this looks bad? If I weren't concerned about perception, would I be warning our district representative against saying anything? But I am worried about perception. Maybe not from Merrick, but from the Capitol. They would punish me … possibly by ending Anastasia's life early in the Games. It's never said aloud, but we know they target certain tributes if they find them problematic. Like the boy that ate the tributes he killed … though in my mind, this hardly compares.

I set the plate down on the bedside table and smile at the sight of Anastasia, still asleep. Rather than risking waking her, I pull an overstuffed armchair a little closer to the bedside and sit to wait. It's better to be in here, in the quiet - even alone like this - than out at that table. This is the only room I have been in the Capitol that has a pervasive calm, and I am sure it is all radiating from the girl across from me. Even as we both await her death.

I pick at the food, figuring she is a light eater anyhow, and hope she awakens before I am pulled away. I wouldn't mind eliciting a smile or two more from her if I could before I had to leave. It would give me something to hold on to, even if I would be worried about tainting the memories of Anastasia with the perverseness I was about to endure once more.

When it first began, I had tried to put on a brave face. I had even tried to convince myself that I was lucky - how wonderful it was to be so admired, so wanted, that I was chosen for that job. I tried to shove aside my fear and the creeping nausea that would hit me every time I was introduced to someone new. Even if they weren't a patron, anxiety would rise in me at the same time I could feel the acid in my throat. The year I turned sixteen, I was brought almost immediately to Lucilla upon my arrival in the Capitol. She had undressed me, asked me a barrage of questions I had no idea how to answer. Had I ever lay with another? I didn't even know what she was referring to. I learned quickly, though.

Now, I'm too good at it. It disgusts me. I have no trouble shutting down, letting them do as they will, or doing what they ask of me. Nothing surprises me anymore, and I am able to keep my game face on, going along blithely with whatever they might request that evening. I come home with money, jewelry. I want none of it. Yet I am alive. Though sometimes I wonder if that's really the best option for me.

And yet …

Looking at Anastasia once more, I am, for the first time in a long time, grateful to still be alive. No matter what I had to endure to end up here, it is a comfort that I am able to be here for her, this fragile girl the Games should have never touched. True, I cannot save her. But I can make her last few days better. That's worth it to me.

I pick up a strawberry from the plate and lean over Anastasia. "Miss Cresta," I call softly. I prod her lips lightly with the fruit, trying not to laugh. "Dinner."

She stirs and opens her eyes, and she looks lovely like that, drowsy and confused. "Fi-" she begins, but she's silenced as I place the strawberry in her open mouth. This makes her laugh, and I sit back, pleased with myself.

"I brought dinner to you," I say, nodding towards the plate. She is combing her hair with her fingers. "I thought it might be nice to eat in private for once. Don't be embarrassed if you want to eat it all. I won't judge you."

"I can't eat all of this, Finnick …" she trails, and she is still smiling.

"Thirty-seventy, then. You get most of it. I wasn't there to monitor your lunch."

"I ate," she insists, though she picks up the spoon to start on the bouillabaisse. I make a note to get more of whatever fish dish they may give us next time.

The knock on the door startles both of us, but it is only the avox servant with the pot of tea promised by Culligan. It reeks of flowers, and we talk about how much we would prefer steeped seaweed to the perfumey Capitol tea. I talk incessantly, actually, while she eats. Years of charming the Capitol citizens has made me rather glib, but this is different. I tell her about my boat, my house. About the time a sea turtle stole my hat. Things I wouldn't normally discuss. Things no one in the Capitol would care about. I do not mention my family, the Games. Nothing that could trigger any kind of anxiety for her. She is relaxed and almost happy, and I want to keep it that way as long as I can. It has become my purpose.


	14. 14 - starfish

As time wears on, my glancing at the clock becomes more frequent. I've exhausted any happy memories I could relate to Anastasia, and so we've sort of fallen into a comfortable silence, sipping dolefully at the sweetened tea. I know that my time with her is growing short, and that I'll soon be called away for the evening, and I'm straining to think of how to get her to open up with me just one more time. She was more than happy to listen to me talk, but so far she had been extremely guarded about herself.

"What did you say your parents do?" I ask finally.

"I didn't," she replies, glancing at me with a little smile, giving away that she's on to me. She puts down her cup, but her fingertips linger on it for a moment. "My mother was a schoolteacher, but the Capitol removed her from her position … and my father is a fisherman. Captain, actually, of a little boat…"

"And you?" I ask. I am curious about her mother, but I would not push it. It doesn't take too much of a stretch of the imagination to figure out why a woman would be removed from a teaching position by the Capitol … and I am beginning to learn more about Anastasia.

Even the children in the Districts are given jobs, if there are jobs available for them - the victors from Eight have told me before that children as young as twelve are sent to work in the textile factories after school. The jobs are usually low-skill - sweeping, or something of the like. But still. Every citizen must contribute to the benefit of Panem.

"I was never given a job … I suppose for the same reason I was not selected for the career school. They were probably waiting to give me something particularly horrible. But I would sometimes help my father sort the catch."

I nod, not knowing how to respond to that. I wasn't hoping for elaboration on why she was never made a career … I think I prefer her as she is, anyhow.

"Every night-" she began, but faltered. She picked up her tea and sipped it without looking at me, but I am straining for information.

"Every night?" I prompt, nudging her leg lightly with my own.

"... before I'd go home, I'd hang around and wait until my father and his crew left their boat," she continued, considerably softer than before. "Anything that didn't go to the canneries was left discarded on the shore. Most of the fish would be dead already, but … I'd pick out the crabs with one leg or the accidentally-caught starfish and throw them back into the ocean. They were still alive, but I couldn't see them left to die."

For some reason, this story startles me. Not because she is subverting the rules of the Capitol - after all, they wouldn't want undesirable seafood thrown back into the ocean - but because of the gentleness of it. The mental image of this young girl taking the time to sort through a pile of rotting fish to save those that were still alive was very vivid in my head. How was a girl like this raised in our District, known by the others as one of brutality, like One and Two? Pieces were beginning to come together, and it was making it harder to think of her dying alone in the arena.

I am broken from my thoughts when she speaks again: "Finnick, who will do that when I die?"

She is still speaking into her cup, and her eyes are starting to get slightly glassy, as though the tears will spill over any moment.

"What are you talking about?" I say quickly, taking her cup away and setting it down on the dresser. "You're not going to die."

She looks up at me hollowly. She is disbelieving. Rightfully so, maybe. But I want to lie to her, still. I just want her to smile.

"Anastasia Cresta," I say firmly, taking her small hands in mine. "I will not let you die. I am your mentor and I will see to it you get all the sponsors you need - so long as you promise me to work hard. Can you do that? Will you try to train properly tomorrow?"

She is turning the idea over in her head. "... but the careers," she begins to protest.

"Forget them," I insist, "ignore them. Don't focus on anyone else but yourself. I promise I can help you get out of this, but you have to want it. If you try your best, and I try my best, we can go save all the crabs and starfish together. Okay?"

Her hands, which had been limp in mine, tighten a bit. She is holding my fingers. "... I'll try," Anastasia agrees softly.

I feel relief flood through me. Though I have told a white lie, I know Anastasia is sincere. But now I know I must leave before I am called away, because that would be painful. "Good. Good," I repeat. I let go of her hands gently. "I'm going to go, now. I need to talk to Mags. Oh - not about you," I add quickly. "This is between us, all right?"

She nods, and lets her hands rest on her lap. They are so tiny.

"Okay. Goodnight, Miss Cresta."

"Goodnight Finnick." She smiles.


	15. 15 - remarkable

I leave the room feeling strangely heartened, and this buoyancy, to my disgust, leads me to be exceedingly charming throughout my night's encounters. I spend my time distracting myself with thoughts of how to win sponsors for Anastasia Cresta. I am surprised at my own sudden determination to help her see things through until the end of the Games.

The next evening, when she returns from training, I can tell by her drained expression that she has followed my advice. "Well?" I ask expectantly, leaning forward on the couch as Culligan brings in the tributes. Merrick casts a dismissively glance towards Anastasia.

"Don't know who she's trying to fool," he says, and with a shrug, heads towards the dining room. Presumably to verbally abuse one of the Avox. Even Culligan lets out a soft little sigh, as though he's fed up with headstrong tributes as much as I am. But he, too, departs, leaving Anastasia and I in the living room.

"... I found out I'm not much good at anything," she says, walking over and sitting on the ottoman across from me.

"Nonsense," I scoff, though I don't detect anything in her tone that points to anything other than seriousness. "What all did you try?"

"Starting fires .. knives .. and I spent some time at the knot station, just to cheer myself up."

This makes me laugh, even though she wasn't joking. "I'm glad. That's a great skill to have, don't downplay it. Don't worry about throwing knives or anything like that - as long as you can properly use one in close combat, the-"

This was the wrong thing to say. The colour is immediately gone from her face.

"Ah, Annie, I didn't mean-" I stop myself again. Where had that come from?

"What…?"

"Sorry," I reply, and I can feel my cheeks growing hot. "I don't know why I said that. Annie."

She shakes her head. "It's okay … you can call me that."

Slowly, I nod. "Okay …" I say. I feel a shift in our relationship, somehow, suddenly. It's subtle, but she seems to feel it as well, as her back has straightened and she is looking at me head-on. "... I didn't mean to frighten you."

"I didn't mean to get frightened," she replies. "I just can't … really help it, still, it's … so real."

"It should be real," I insist. "You should be frightened, I can't tell you otherwise. Merrick, he may not be frightened, but … he lacks … important characteristics. Goodness. Warmth. That's what I'd prefer you hold on to. If you're scared, good. It means you're human. You haven't been …" But I trail off, shaking my head. That would be too bold to announce here, even in the confines of the District Four suite. Corrupted. If I had denounced the Capitol like that, my life would have been over. And yet … I'm more worried about the Capitol potentially punishing her for those words than myself. And so I sigh, stretching my arms above my head. "Anyhow, do you see my point?" I ask, leading. She nods.

Of course she understands.

"There's only one day left," I continue, "and then you'll have to present for the Gamemakers. Have you thought about what you might do?"

"I'm not sure … I don't have anything too remarkable about me," she replies. "I don't think they'll have a pool or anything I could swim in." I'm grateful she's smiling slightly as she says this. Today hasn't gotten her down as much as it could have.

"We'll come up with something. Don't worry. For tomorrow, just focus on your training again. It's your last chance, so instead of starting something completely new, continue working on what you've already done. You're more likely to retain that knowledge." The words coming out of my mouth are those of a mentor, for the first time since I became one. Is truly caring about the tributes' welfare a sign of being a proper mentor? Or is it only a detriment?


	16. 16 - admonished

The next morning I am in such a sleep-deprived haze from being shuffled from partner to partner last night that I am unable to remember eating breakfast, let alone that it is the tributes' last day of training. Mags has to repeatedly nudge me, and I take small sips, and then gulps, of sugar-laden coffee before I start to feel somewhat human again.

"It's the last day," I remind them as they're leaving. "Make sure you take advantage of it." The statement is addressed to both of them, but Anastasia catches my eye and reassures me in her glance that she knows I was speaking to her alone. She won't waste this opportunity. Not after what we discussed last night.

I try to ignore the imploring eyes of Mags as we make our way to the atrium. She always has questions for me, now, questions I can't answer. And I am sure that some of these would concern Anastasia Cresta if she were to voice them. But she is not as prying or invasive as Johanna Mason, who is waiting for me as soon as I step in the room.

"You look beat," she greets me, and grabs my wrist with her bony hand, pulling me along to the back of the room. We deposit ourselves on a green velvet couch and she leans over immediately.

"So," she begins, and falls silent. She is staring.

"... so?" I repeat wearily, looking longingly at the buffet, where a silver coffeepot rests. It tastes terrible to me, but I have to look alive.

"My tributes told me your girl is pickin' up slack."

Immediately my focus snaps back to Johanna. "What?" I ask stupidly. It did not occur to me that the tributes would discuss each other. I'm sure it happens, but when it comes from the mouths of those in my District, it is usually just to discuss how easy they will be to kill. It comes with a Career district.

"Said she may as well have been paralyzed Tuesday, but that yesterday she was workin' hard. Alone, not sayin' anything, but she was trying. What'd you do?"

I straighten a bit and shrug. "I didn't … do anything, really."

Johanna rolls her eyes. "Please. Finnick, what'd I tell ya? She's not gonna stand a chance, and here you are …"

"Here I am what?!" I snap.

"Carrying on and making her think she's going to win just 'cause you like her!"

"Since when do you care so much about giving anyone false hope?!" My voice is louder than I'd like it to be, and even Johanna's gaze darts nervously around the room. I take a breath and rub my face. "Johanna. What else am I supposed to do? If I don't make her feel like she stands a chance, she'd just throw herself into the bloodbath and end it immediately. Besides, it wasn't me that gave her any hope, she found it herself."

Johanna's eyebrows shoot up to the tip of her short, choppy bangs. "She did?"

"Yes, it's - it's a long story. And personal. But so what if she's trying? Let her try. You know your tributes don't stand a chance. You said so yourself. But I bet you're not going around telling them they're bound to d- actually, maybe you do, but …"

"Of course I don't, brainless!" she groans.

"Then why are you treating me like what I'm doing is wrong?" I protest.

Johanna doesn't respond immediately. She is staring at me as though I have just said something completely inane, or forgotten my own name, or … told her I was moving to the Capitol. It takes her a moment to rearrange her features. "You were oblivious when we met, Finnick Odair. Don't seem like you've let a lot of that go, huh?" She claps me on the shoulder - hard, for someone so petite - and stands. "Coffee?"

".. sure," I reply distractedly.

What is she calling me oblivious for? I know Annie - Anastasia - doesn't stand much of a chance. But how is that the issue here? Whatever it is, it is agitating Johanna, and perhaps Mags, as well. But they could be imagining things as well. In this environment, where none of us can speak freely, there is a lot of subterfuge and guesswork. Perhaps my exhaustion is coming across as depression.

Johanna returns with two pink porcelain cups of coffee. "Let's see…" she mumbles to herself, passing me one. "I think that one has all the sugar."

I nod my thanks and accept the cup, taking a little sip, hoping I won't be so wired when the tributes return that I am unable to help Annie further.

"Gonna be a real push to get sponsors this year," Johanna sighs as she sits once more. Whatever she had wanted to discuss earlier was, apparently, now gone from her mind. "My kids aren't real promising. And, y'know, that whole issue with me and social skills."

I have to laugh. "You've managed before. You'll pull it off again. You're a pretty good actress, after all."

"Yeah, guess acting's how I ended up with this pleasure, anyhow …" she agrees.

Her mention of sponsors, however, has finally kicked my brain into gear: that's right. I have a mission. Merrick will gain his own sponsors by virtue of his monstrous demeanour. But Annie will need as much help as she can get, and I intend to get it for her, somehow. I begin to scout the room for potential takers, just as the Capitol observes me.

Picking sponsors is a science: after four years, I am getting good at figuring out which type of socialite will sponsor which kind of tribute. Older men like Careers. Younger men like females. Everyone likes an attractive tribute, no matter their age. With Annie, it will probably be a wealthy woman who has children of her own, who I can goad into pitying her. It makes me feel slightly bad for preying on Annie's weakness, but if it will help her, I will do it.

I down the last bit of my coffee and set the cup aside for an Avox to collect. "All right, Jo," I say, standing and straightening my ridiculously gaudy silk jacket. "I have to get to work."


	17. 17 - cecily

I am unable to go back to the tribute building the next evening. Earlier this morning, they were taken to be evaluated by the Gamemakers, and I was unable to talk to Anastasia alone.

Though I spent more of my time flirting in the atrium than I had ever bothered to do before, I am pulled away by Lucilla. Appointments in the middle of the day are rare, and I know by the fact that I am being taken away from my mentoring duties that it must be someone very, very high up, perhaps in President Snow's pocket. Only they are given the rights to me when I am supposed to be masquerading for the Capitol.

Lucilla takes me downtown, to a high-rise hotel on the square, confirming my suspicions. I am left alone in the room, though I know without peeking under the door there are people, guards, waiting in case I try and make a break for it. There is no privacy in the Capitol, even for encounters like these.

I smile - perfunctory, not because I am happy - as Cecily Amirault enters the room moments later. She is a member of President Snow's cabinet, and one of my more frequent customers. A slender woman, she would be attractive if she didn't wear six layers of makeup and dye her hair that shade of lavender. But her appearance does not make me despise her any less. Still, I stand from where I had been waiting in an armchair by the window, and give her a quick kiss on the cheek.

"You look beautiful," I greet warmly. This is not me. I can feel myself distancing from the situation already, as though I am controlling myself from afar. Taking her hand, helping her out of her jacket. It is like watching a film.

"Oh Finnick, you haven't lost a bit of your charm," she replies.

"I'm surprised you didn't call me up sooner. I thought you might not like me anymore."

"Nonsense," Cecily chides, slapping my wrist a little harder than one would if they were being friendly. "Things are simply so busy with the Games coming up. I've hardly had time to get away. Let alone for fun!"

My smile broadens. "And I suppose you've made your bets?" I tease. I know she cannot bet, being too high up in the Capitol, though a lot of underhanded dealings go on regardless.

"Finnick Odair. I do not bet. Not before the training scores arrive, anyhow!"

My stomach drops. That's right - this is no night to be in this hotel in the Capitol, with this despicable woman that keeps me right where she wants me. I glance at the clock - Anastasia and Merrick would be returning from training any moment, only to find me gone. But I am a prisoner in this fifteen-story building, waiting until Cecily is done with me before I can get back to my tribute. Tributes.

"Yes … that's tonight, isn't it?" I ask, my voice lilting. "I think you'll be pleased with our tributes from Four." She begins to tug at my jacket, which I let drop from my arms onto the floor. She is in no mood to discuss the Games. From far away, I am watching this happen. I am screaming for her to get her hands off me, for her to let me go. But my body isn't mine.

"Oh?" Cecily's lips are on my neck as she pulls my collar away from the skin. "That's lovely."

"We should watch the announcement - together," I say, fighting to keep at least some control.

"Ooh, how romantic," she coos mockingly. "But if it means you'll stay with me that long …"

"Longer, if that's what you like," I reply. "I can't think of anyone I would rather watch it with." If I cannot get back to Annie in time, I'll simply watch it here. Congratulate her later. After a night like this, I would love to talk with her in her room again. But the image of Annie and what is happening to me now - Cecily, removing my shirt, reaching for my belt - these things don't mesh in my mind. I feel something is ready to break. This, my true self, and Annie Cresta, juxtaposed.

We fall into the routine I pretend to enjoy. Like choosing sponsors, this, too, is a science. Certain things are expected of me in the bedroom, and it's an art I have cultivated, out of the basic human desire to stay alive. The idea that anyone would do these things for pleasure is repulsive. I am removed from it all, watching from beside the bed, confused by myself and the smile on my face throughout. I am amused and horrified at my own mask and the skill I must have to keep it. It never cracks.

It is only afterwards, when she pushes me roughly from on top of her, that I am jolted back into my own body. I am sticky, sweating, and the blankets are peeled from my legs as I move to sit against the headboard. I take a moment to close my eyes and recount to myself who I am while I feel Cecily shifting beside me. My eyes are still closed when the television turns on.

"Hey, Finnick. Didn't you want to see this?" she asks, snaking her arm around mine. I open my eyes. The gaudy Capitol hosts are on the screen, already announcing the scores for District One. They fall on my deaf ears. I can hardly focus on the television before us.

I raise a hand and rub my eyes to clear them through District Two - they are given nines each. That's not good. Three rank 5 and 3, and now I am suddenly wide awake, thankful I live in a low-numbered District. My heart is already racing - if I had to wait until, say, District Ten, I might go in to cardiac arrest.

I pull my arm from Cecily's, disregarding what it might make her think, and lean in towards the television. Merrick is shown first, announced as a nine. This is something I should pretend to be happy about, so I rearrange my mouth to form a smile. It must look like a grimace.

And then, there is lovely little Anastasia, staring dolefully in her portrait.

A four.

She is given a four. My heart sinks. I hadn't been there to tell her what she could have done. I hadn't been able to help her. There was no way she could get sponsors now.

It's Cecily's voice that brings me back.

"Ooh, Finnick," she's sighing, "you didn't tell me how lovely your little girl was! What a shame she won't make it …"

"A shame?" I ask dully.

"Yes, I'd just love to have her just like I do you."

My stomach lurches. I know immediately I am going to be sick. Leaping up and rushing into the lavish bathroom, I slam the door behind myself and vomit into the sink. My heart is racing - Annie! Like this!

I rinse my mouth, wondering if I am selfish to want to keep her alive if it means she ends up like me. And she would. Cecily is right. Anastasia Cresta is beautiful enough to end up among us if she lives. But which is worse? Would I rather be dead than live this life?

I splash water over my face and glance up at my reflection in the mirror. And that is when I realize that as much as I hate this existence in the Capitol, when I am home in Four, I am not quite happy, but I am not miserable. Two, three weeks out of the year I go through hell. I am degraded, abused, raped. But I am alive.

And something in me steels. Even if it means this, even if it is selfish, even if she hates me forever after, I want Annie Cresta to know that this life is infinitely preferable to death.

I walk back into the room. Cecily is staring from the bed, the television still droning on with training scores.

"You okay…?" she asks.

"I'm fine," I insist lightly. "Listen …" Sitting down on the bed, I slip my arm around her shoulders. "I know it's wrong to bribe, but … I was thinking, if instead of paying me tonight, you sponsored Annie Cresta, I'm sure we could give you the pleasure of the first night with her once she was of age."

Cecily frowns, as though she's thinking it over. My heart is in my throat. If I can buy her time, somehow, in those two years, I am sure I can get another female victor from Four. One who wants to win. Four is abundant with Careers, and someone was bound to be strong enough to win, to take Anastasia's place before any of this ever happened to her. I am practically giddy. In the worst circumstance, I have realized I have a chance of both keeping her alive and keeping her safe. I have not felt this high, this happy, in the longest time.

Cecily nods. "That arrangement works fine for me, Finnick. It's a deal."


	18. 18 - reasons

As soon as the Peacekeepers escort me from Lucilla's car to the doors of the tribute building, I rush inside. It is late, surely too late for Annie to be awake, but I will wake her tonight if I must. I punch the elevator button frantically, as though that will make it come faster. I am buzzing. I am nervous, yes, but filled with some sort of hope, finally. I can save her. Someone who so desperately needs it.

The suite is dark and quiet, and I kick off my shoes near the door to move as silently as possible towards the hallway. The light is on under her door, much to my relief, and as soon as I knock it is opened.

"Finnick!" Her voice is quiet - she knows, it seems, that we shouldn't be meeting like this, not this late - but she is smiling. Perhaps she is not as daunted by her low training score as I thought.

I mirror her smile as I slip through the narrow opening into her room. "I'm sorry, Annie, that I couldn't be here …" I murmur as she closes the door behind me. She turns, shaking her head.

"You're busy, it's okay …"

"Busy … yeah," I agree. I almost want to laugh at the absurdity of her observance, but I refrain. I sit at the edge of her bed. "Well …? How did it go?"

"I'm sure you saw," she says, and she sits down beside me. "I didn't do well."

"It's all right. Remember Johanna Mason? She got a low score, too."

"That was strategic," she replies, frowning up at me.

I shrug. "Maybe people think that's your strategy, too. That's good, let them think that. If anything, it seems like you've come across as quite an enigma, Annie Cresta."

"To everyone else, or just to you?"

Her question catches me off guard, and I am unable to disguise my surprise. "... both, I guess," I admit sheepishly, mumbling.

We lapse into silence, and I find myself examining my shoes rather than looking up at her. I feel childish somehow, worried that she is thinking poorly of me, or wants me to leave. After this afternoon, I felt elated to be returning to her, and now here I am, unable to speak.

"Finnick?"

I raise my gaze.

"Is it worth it? Becoming a victor?"

My mouth opens in surprise, and I am quiet for a moment. "... Why would you ask that?"

Annie's shoulders rise and fall. "I don't know … you all seem so isolated. Living segregated from the community you were once part of. Brought back here yearly. It doesn't seem …. like it's really worth it, in the end."

I sigh. So much is at the tip of my tongue, now. I want to tell her everything. That some days, it's not worth it. Some days, I want to die. I wish I had died in the arena. But I was young, and naive, and thought that winning was the greatest glory. I have, until now, been grateful Anastasia was not a younger version of myself. But how am I supposed to answer this question? Being a victor, we are told, guarantees your safety. But nothing is further from the truth.

I have seen victors utterly destroyed. We are all clinging to the small scraps of good we have left in our lives, while being told to feign happiness lest they kill us or someone we love. They took my family. My innocence. How can I tell her it is better to be a victor than be dead? Yet only hours before, I had made the decision for her. Was that truly for her?

Or was it for myself?

"... Of course it is," I say. "But not for the reasons you might think. It's not for the money, or the fame."

"Why, then?" she asks. I can feel her gaze fixed on my face, though I am unable to meet it.

"... for the ocean. For the sun. Fresh-caught fish. It's worth it for the excitement of the morning market in the middle of the District. For friendship. For being on a boat on the open sea." I pause, and smile at her. "It's worth it for saving starfish on the beach."

Annie's lip trembles for a moment, but my point seems to have reached her. While I feel it's a lie, a very selfish one, at that, I am willing to do anything to get her to pull her weight in the arena. I have promised her I will do my part, but it would mean nothing if she wasn't wanting to live for herself.

"Trust me," I say, taking her little hands in mine, "it is far preferable to be a victor than to throw your life away in the arena."

"But at what cost?" she asks. Her fingers curl around mine.

"Annie, you won't have to - kill anyone," I insist. "I'll make sure of that. I want you to run, and keep running. If you can concentrate on surviving, I can take care of the rest. Please trust me."

She is frowning again, but she nods, pulling her hands from mine slowly. "Finnick …?"

"Yes?"

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because …" I begin, and falter. Because it's not fair. Of course it's not fair. It's never been fair. But what has made Anastasia different from any other tribute I have seen? I admit that I have never been hell-bent on saving any one of them. You become immune to the idea, not wanting to set yourself up for the heartbreak of sending another child off to die. You shut them out. You coach them from a distance. But I have set myself up in a dangerous position to protect this girl. For what?

I turn slightly on the bed so that I am facing her. She looks so fragile like that, sitting with her hands in her lap. Her eyes, the same sea-green shade as mine, are locked on me imploringly. I take in a deep breath, and when I speak, my words have the conviction that come with those one knows are true. "You crept up on me."


	19. 19 - get with her

The look on Annie's face the following morning - the last before she would be going in to the arena - is one I know quite well.

She searches the faces of those around her, looking for any measure of warmth or kindness, even smiling at the Avox who fills her plate with gratitude. This is the look of someone who knows what awaits them, and is savouring any last bit of goodness they can find. This is the expression on my face anytime I am around the other victors, or Mags, Johanna Mason, or, now, Annie. Those of us struggling through our day to day lives will take gentleness where they can find it. And so I smile any time she looks to me, though it comes so naturally I doubt I'm doing it just to be polite. I can't actively attempt to put her at ease here at the breakfast table, but I am straining to communicate nonverbally.

This morning we are to work with both the tributes in turn - Mags, Culligan Morris and I - to prepare them for their interviews this evening with Caesar Flickermann. This will be their last big chance to pull in sponsors before the Games. I am, for once, at ease, however. Annie Cresta will not go without sponsors, even if she were to royally screw up her interview.

This thought gives me confidence I haven't had in a long time, and a feeling of power over my captors: after all, I am twisting their prostitution of me, turning it into something to benefit my tribute. I could almost fool myself into believing I'm doing this on my own terms, rather than at their demand, though I am sure the sight of Lucilla's arrival this evening will take me back to reality.

While Mags and I take turns coaching the tributes on what to say to downplay their flaws and turn them into fighters the Capitol will want to sponsor, Culligan is to coach them on poise and etiquette. It's probably not necessary for Annie, who goes with him first, while I am left with Merrick. He will go to Culligan in an hour when Annie goes to Mags, and my last appointment of the day will be with Miss Cresta. I am surprised at the pleasure this thought brings me - I hope to draw it out a bit, just to make sure she is feeling comfortable.

Meanwhile, however, I am left in the living room with Merrick. We are seated across from each other, mimicking each other's posture in a show of defiance. Really, though, it is like looking in a mirror to the past. He is me five years ago. I am him five years in the future, if he is to win. But he can't see what really awaits him, just as I was blind to it several years ago.

"So, think you can stop tryin' to get with her long enough to give me a little advice?"

Merrick's words break the tension in the room, then elevate it tenfold. "Pardon?" I ask, fighting to regain composure. I am sure I reddened: I can feel the heat under my collar.

"Don't know how you think you're being subtle," Merrick continues. "And if I'm not mistaken, playing favourites can get you in trouble."

I find myself repeating Mags' words, through clenched teeth: "she's a tribute." But this feels like a lie. I am gripping the arm of the couch to keep from crossing the room and punching this snide kid across from me.

Merrick laughs. "Please. You're in her room day and night, you practically feed each other at the table. I don't know why you're bothering, I'm just gonna take her out first."

I stand, nearly knocking over the coffee table between us. "You want my advice?" I ask. "Here are two pieces. One: don't tell your strategy to anyone, especially not your mentors. I have no investment in this game. And two: don't let anyone get close to you. Not that they would."

I am leaving him in the living room, storming back to my own bedroom. My mind is reeling - could I trust what he said? That he planned to kill Annie? Or was it just a ploy, to get a rise out of me? No, surely he was serious. I've seen this type several times before. He is perfectly serious - and stupid. There is a chance he will change his strategy now that he has blurted it out to me, but it's slim. Chances are good he will still go after Annie in the arena. If I warn her, will she heed it?

I deposit myself in one of the overstuffed armchairs and order kelp tea, turning recent events over in my mind. With my work with Merrick cut short, I am left with several hours between now and when I can talk to Annie, and I am hoping that he does not reach her first. There's no telling what kind of damage he could do to her psyche.

The knock on the door startles me, and I open it very little to make sure it is not Merrick before allowing the Avox servant in. She leaves the tea on my table and I nod my thanks, then shut the door behind her again. While I am usually grateful for any amount of time alone in the Capitol, my thoughts keep turning to Annie Cresta. I felt confident this morning that I could keep her alive, but I had foolishly pushed aside the thought that others would be hunting her. There are ways for her to avoid them, certainly, and I trust in her ability - she is small, and slight. She could stay hidden easily. That, I think to myself, might be her best chance.

I pour myself a cup of tea and sink back into my chair once more. If Annie Cresta could simply stay out of sight long enough for me to work out a strategy, she could be saved. Ideally, I would have a strategy before she went in, before Merrick went after her …

Merrick's words come back to me: "So, think you can stop tryin' to get with her long enough to give me a little advice?"

Had he really thought that about the two of us? I suppose I had spent more time with Annie, but this was a simple matter of saving a life that deserved it for once. Nothing more. But for the first time, I find myself worrying about perception. Merrick took note of our friendship, as did Mags. Even Johanna Mason had something to say. If someone else was watching us, it could be trouble. Like everything, though, there is no point in ruminating on it too long. What will happen will happen, but I will control as much as I can.


	20. 20 - a mentor

"How did your training with Mags and Culligan go?"

Annie is still in the doorway when I address her, and the momentary look of surprise on her face makes me smile in spite of myself. I have been waiting on the sofa in the living room, having ordered tea for us both, ready to talk her through her last bit of training advice before she leaves tomorrow for the arena.

"Fine …" she says, though she seems a bit uneasy. She sits across from me, taking a moment to move the armchair closer to the table as I pour her cup of tea.

"You didn't get too anxious?" I ask.

She places her hands in her lap, shaking her head. "It wasn't so bad … Mags is kind, and Culligan, too."

Had it been any other District representative - I have known three in my career as a mentor - I would have scoffed. But although Four seems to have a high turnover for escorts to and from the Capitol, I have worked with Culligan the longest, and she is right. He is unusually kind. Airheaded, perhaps, but sometimes I almost find him sympathetic with the tributes.

For a moment we sit, each sipping at our tea, watching one another. She looks particularly nervous today - understandable, of course - but it's all I can do to keep from getting up and taking her hands and reassuring her.

"... so," I begin after a long silence. "Have you given a thought to your arena strategy?"

"Have you?" she asks of me. Annie sounds hopeful, as though she were waiting for me to do this for her. I expected it, however. Annie is not Merrick. She would not sit, stewing, plotting for days in her bedroom. She probably did not analyze each of the twenty-three other tributes, waiting until they displayed a weakness. She did not hone her skills at a weapon. Annie's mind is almost certainly on the arena constantly, but for completely different reasons than the others.

"Yes." I pause, watching her eyes grow wider with each passing second, waiting for me to continue. "Your strategy is to run."

"... to run," she repeats, disbelievingly.

"Annie, I want you to get as far away from the other tributes as you possibly can. And stay away from them. You have so many advantages - your swimming, your small stature - you'll be unnoticed for the most part. Even your training score is to your advantage. They're not going to think of you as a threat. They won't come after you right away. That will give you plenty of time to find somewhere to hide."

She thinks I'm mad. I can read it in her face.

"I promise you," I say firmly, placing my cup down, "that if you can stay safe on your own for a few days, I can take care of you. We can get you out of there."

"No one will want to sponsor me …" she replies dubiously, after reading between the lines.

"They will. I promise. They do. Would it make you feel better if I told you I had sponsors lined up already? Please, don't worry. I can take care of you." I am practically begging her to believe me.

"Finnick …" she begins, and trails off. The cup is shaking in her small hands. "Finnick, my arena strategy is just to give up…"

"No!" My voice is louder than I meant, and I look around quickly for any startled cohabitants who might have poked their heads into the living room. "Annie. Annie. There is no need to give up. I promise."

"But what if you're wrong?" she asks me, and her voice is thick.

"I'm no-" I start, and sigh. "... If I'm wrong, then fine. You can enact your plan. But only after a certain point."

"What point is that?" Her voice is soft, and she is no longer watching me. Instead, her gaze has turned towards the carpet. As if it could help her out of this.

"You can give up when you know you are comfortable with never seeing the ocean again."

Her head jerks up immediately, as though she has been stabbed with a needle. It had the effect I desired … after all, I think, it would work on me, as well.

There are some tributes, mentors, who have little connection to their District. Those from six, eight, where there are mostly dirty cities and factories … they feel no longing to return. But I've seen it in Johanna Mason, from the forests, and almost every tribute that comes through from Four. We are born by the ocean, our lives are shaped by it. It is the source of our food, our work, and there is not a resident of the District who would give it up if they had the choice. I am giving Annie that choice now.

She is boring holes into me with her watery gaze, now, and I refuse to look away. I have challenged her, and she knows it.

"So … can you trust me?" I ask softly.

There is a pause, and then she nods.


	21. 21 - last supper

They spare me this evening, allowing me final time as a mentor with my tributes. There would be plenty of time during Mags' shifts at the Games for me to be passed from bed to bed, after all, and so I dine with the people that are my temporarily family tonight. It is tense, but Mags and I attempt to keep the conversation light between the five of us. Culligan's chatter is, for once, a bit of a blessing. Still, Merrick and Anastasia and stoic and quiet as they pick at their food. I can't pretend I am not glad to see nerves finally getting to Merrick.

Every now and then I attempt to catch Annie's eye, and when I do, I offer what I hope is a consoling smile. I have been in her position, the evening before the Games. No matter how confident a tribute may be, there is always a nagging sickness. The strongest of Careers can still feel anxiety over what is to come. Though I was never frightened of going in to the arena - an idea which strikes me as laughably naive now - I remember sitting at this same table five years ago, exactly as these two are now, unable to eat and fidgeting. I cannot imagine how Annie, who lacks the bravado to hide her fear, must be feeling.

As the avox clear away the dessert plates, most of which went uneaten, and bring out coffees and teas for those who may want something warm in the evening, I begin to explain the procedure for the next morning.

"You'll be woken at six," I tell them, stirring sugar into my coffee. "Mags and I will take you to the hovercraft dock, where you'll be flown to the arena. That will be our last moment with you -" here, I glance at Annie, who is watching me intently "- so it will be your last chance to ask anything of us. Once you get to the arena, you'll be escorted to the launch room, where your stylist will dress you for the arena and do any last minute preparation with you. Pay attention to what you're put in, as far as clothing goes. It can give you a good indication as to what to expect as far as climate and landscape. By the time you're in the tube to ascend to the arena, Mags and I will be in the atrium, watching and ready. Remember that. We're looking out for you and will make sure you do the best you can."

Here, I pause to finally take a sip of my steaming coffee. I've made it too sweet, once again. "We know as little about the arena as you do, so be ready for anything. We've gone over the last six arenas with you, so you can assume it won't be anything like those - Gamemakers hate to repeat things too often, or the audience could get bored." I hate using those words. I hate reinforcing that this really is just all for the entertainment of those in the Capitol. Though it began as a form of punishment for those that rebelled against the Capitol so long ago few living remember it, it has long since evolved into something far more grotesque … "Anyhow, it's likely to be unfamiliar. Unless the arena is a beach, there's not much you could prepare yourself for. But there is always a source of water, so search that out first. Dehydration is going to be your main worry.

"I don't know if either of you have made alliances, but my last advice would be to be wary of everyone." I look from Merrick to Annie. "Remember what you're in there for."

I retreat to my room with the image of Annie staring, transfixed, at me from across the table in my mind. I have the strong desire to seek her out, ask her how she is feeling. But Merrick made me too aware, once more, that there are eyes everywhere. If it looks as though I am playing favourites, she could end up a Gamemaker's target. Even Culligan's smile when I ordered the tea is worrisome. Even Johanna Mason had questions. How careless had I gotten? What was it about the girl that made me so?

I draw back the curtains from the window I usually keep closed. The city below is lit up for the evening in a cascading rainbow of lights, the streets crowded with those getting a head start celebrating the opening of the 70th Hunger Games. That's right - it's an anniversary year, just as my Games were. They're bound to be a special one, then. No wonder they seem so elated. There is always something, every five years, to make the Games particularly memorable. This only increases my worry.

I sigh, push my hands through my hair, which snags a bit with tangles. The last day before the Games is always stressful, and I grow lax in my appearance, something I'm expected to keep up in the Capitol. But without customers, it is easier to let myself slip.

I am pacing the room, my mind racing with every possibility they could throw at Annie Cresta. A desert? She would be doomed. A frozen tundra - no, there was a year most tributes died of exposure, a very unexciting Games. They wouldn't make that mistake again. I begin to panick, thinking of all the things we have not prepared her for. I almost bolt out of my room to hers, when I remember my promise to myself. I cannot make this look like anything more than it is.

I sit down on the bed. I must force myself to relax. I remove my shoes and shirt and let myself fall back onto the duvet, my eyes wandering. There is nothing to keep me from thinking of what awaits Annie Cresta, though. There is too much speculation. I don't remember being this nervous about my own Games, but then, did I have more confidence in myself than I do in Annie?

When my gaze falls on my discarded shoes, I sit bolt upright. Taking one up, I remove thelace, as I did in Annie Cresta's room several nights ago. For a moment, I twist it around my fingers, remembering the first time I honestly tried to comfort her. What is she doing now?

Resting my elbows on my knees, I begin to go through the knots I know, just as I got her to relax before. It's so intuitive to those of us from Four that it is mindless, just enough so to keep us from thinking at all. I force myself to go through alphabetically. Angler's knot. Arbor knot. Blackwall hitch. The ever-useful Bowline. Carrick bend.

The work becomes so absorbing that I do not notice, at first, when my door opens after a soft knock. Silhouetted against the dim light from the hallway is Annie Cresta, a shoelace looped around her own fingers.


End file.
